


Scream Kings

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: Holiday Chuckles [1]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Celebrity Crush, It’s in a darkened theater idk, M/M, Preklok, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, kloktober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: In 1996 Charles spent his Christmas Eve at the movies. It had been his habit back then, having no one in particular to spend the depressingly omnipresent holiday with. The only way he could fully escape the crass commercialism of Santa-worshipers for a while was to catch a horror film.That year, it was Scream.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Series: Holiday Chuckles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002837
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Scream Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 22 prompt, "Shakespeare or horror films."
> 
> Because I haven't written Chuckles in ages. It was my original otp, actually, before I decided Nathan was my fave. Lol. 
> 
> Also, shortly after writing this I found out that Scream was filmed in a town less than half an hour away from where I live. I'm going to have to watch it again and see if I recognize anything!

There were some interesting quirks to being the two oldest full-time residents of Mordhaus; they had history together that the other guys knew absolutely nothing about. 

In 1996 Charles spent his Christmas Eve at the movies. It had been his habit back then, having no one in particular to spend the depressingly omnipresent holiday with. The only way he could fully escape the crass commercialism of Santa-worshipers for a while was to catch a horror film. 

That year, it was Scream. 

About fifteen minutes in, when the boyfriend started talking about his relationship with the main character in terms of ratings, Charles rolled his eyes. The entitled, thwarted teenage male sex drive was an obvious motive. There would be other clues later on, he assumed, and if the kid was smart enough he’d have an accomplice to work with for alibi purposes, but from that line he had the boyfriend pegged as the culprit. He would stay in the theater just to confirm that he was right, but he generally was when it came to such things. How disappointing. 

While the boyfriend continued failing to get his rocks off, Charles’ attention drifted to the theater audience. The movie had come out a few days ago already but there was a decent crowd in the seats, despite the holiday. From his seat in the very back row, the nearest two people were some guy in a baseball cap—who wore a hat at the movies?—and someone with a shock of red hair. They definitely weren’t paying attention to the movie either. 

He was about to look away, scan the other rows idly to try and evaluate who else might be there out of sheer boredom like himself, but just then the screen lit up with a brighter daytime scene and Charles caught a glimpse of the redhead in profile. That goatee, he _recognized_ that goatee. It had been a few years since Snakes N Barrels had broken up, but he doubted that anyone who’d ever been to one of their live concerts could ever forget about their singer and front man. That was _Pickles from Snakes N Barrels_. 

And he was definitely making out with a dude in a movie theater during a horror film on Christmas Eve. 

Maybe Charles leaned forward unconsciously when he realized who it was, and the light from the screen glinted off his glasses. Maybe it was just chance. Either way, when Pickles broke the lip lock to breathe he glanced back and caught him watching. Their eyes locked for a second . . . and then Pickles _winked_. He held up one hand, no sign of the red leather gloves he’d used to wear back in the day, and licked a stripe up his palm. 

Charles reached for his collar to loosen a tie he was not, in fact, wearing. 

Pickles’ hand disappeared, and the former rockstar had stopped looking his way in favor of the man he was sitting with. A moment later the man’s head lolled in response to . . . what Pickles was doing. 

God. Charles tried not to think about it. He tried to watch the movie, tried cramming a handful of popcorn into his mouth and chewing furiously, but his eyes kept drifting back down. The bag of warm popcorn in his lap definitely wasn’t helping, but he was reluctant to move it because then there would be one last barrier between him and crossing some sort of line. 

_It’s not like he flipped you off for looking,_ said a tiny voice in the back of Charles’ head. _He didn’t_ act _like he minded. That lick, he didn’t have to be so obvious about that lick._ Charles bit the inside of his lip trying not to picture it again, but he pictured it anyway. _He did it so you would see. There’s no line there except the one you’re drawing yourself._

No. No, he wasn’t going to give in. It was voyeurism, it was public indecency—he’d defended clients for doing shit like this, back during a mercifully short stint as a public defender. 

Pickles glanced back at him again, and instead of winking this time he licked his lips. It was happening three rows away but Charles felt zeroed in like a telescope, so intent that the fucking Pope could’ve sat down next to him and he wouldn’t have noticed. 

He moved the popcorn to the floor and let his hands pool in his lap, fingers twitching, not doing anything yet, just—

Plenty of times. He’d jerked off to the thought of Pickles from Snakes N Barrels plenty of times before. In his car while waiting out the epic traffic jam after a concert, which he’d gone to in the first place to leave behind the reality of his boring corporate job that was just glorified legal accounting. In his apartment, listening to the albums. He’d jerked off to plenty of other things in his lifetime too, but having this one, unreachable fantasy so close was exquisite torture. 

Then Pickles _did_ wink at him again, and leaned down out of view behind the seat backs. If it wasn’t already obvious what was happening, his date’s head lolled back to exclaim silently up towards the ceiling. 

Charles realized he had reflexively pressed the backs of his hands against the growing tent in his slacks and thought, _Fuck it_. After that, the last line of his zipper was a surprisingly easy line to cross.   
  


* * *

When Charles regained the presence of mind to tuck himself away and clean himself up with the concession stand napkins that he'd gotten with his popcorn, he didn’t feel as ashamed as he’d thought he might. It was the most risqué thing he’d done since coming out in college—and yet also far, far more private. Surprisingly private for a public venue. 

It didn’t matter that he’d spent the entire time imagining Pickles kneeling in front of him. _That_ part was private. Even if he’d been caught on tape, no one ever need know that part, least of all the guy who had inspired the fantasy. Charles discretely tossed the balled up napkins further down the otherwise empty row, glancing up to see if Pickles and his date were done—er, finally watching the movie. 

His heart seized in his chest when he saw they weren’t there. 

“Lookin’ fer me, chief?” 

Charles didn’t dare look. He heard the hinges of the seat next to him squeak and felt an arm bump against his on the shared armrest. On the big screen, something was happening in a video store. 

“Hey, it’s not like I mind,” Pickles told him in a low, ‘talking at the movies’ stage whisper. “Don’t always get that star-struck look like I used to, y’unno?”

“You, ah, could. . . . You could, ah, tell?”

“Sure.” And just like that, Pickles from Snakes N Barrels was leaning against him, murmuring in his ear. What the hell was happening? “Most people’d look away from a little public tonsil cleanin’, but you didn’t. That’s pretty hot.”

“Wouldn’t your, ah, date be annoyed?”

“Who, that guy? Nah dood, he’s jest my dealer. I had to work a little ‘trade magic’ before my next residuals check comes in. I picked the place, though. And if yer worried, don’t be; he put a condom on.”

Charles felt his cheeks redden, especially at the implications of that ‘if you’re worried.’ “Oh. I, ah. . . .”

“Yer cute when you stutter,” Pickles told him, grinning. Charles couldn’t see it but he _felt_ it, along the skin of his jaw, and it sat off a chain reaction of shivers that he tried self-consciously to contain. “What’s yer name?”

“It’s, ah, Charles.”

“Nice to meet you Charles, I’m Pickles.”

“I know,” Charles blurted, then went even redder.

Pickles chuckled, low and sultry, and this time the shiver was beyond containment. “Yeah, I know. Wanna help me out with a little problem I’ve got, chief?”

And then Pickles from Snakes N Barrels took Charles’ hand and put it on his lap, pressing it gently against the insistent bulge in his low-riding jeans. 

“It’s only fair, seeing how I got you off so good you frosted yer popcorn,” Pickles added, nudging the telltale bag on the floor with his foot. 

Charles found himself nodding. “Ah, okay. I can—Yes, I, ah, can do that.”

Pickles grinned harder and laid a kiss along his jawline. “Thanks chief. Yer hand is fine, seein’ as how we only just met. Done this before?” Still in control of Charles’ hand, he moved it to let a fingertip trace down the fine red trail that led from his belly button to the top of those very snug acid wash jeans. 

“Y-yes. Not in a—Not at the movies, but, ah, yes.”

“Awesome,” Pickles sighed, and released Charles’ hand. 

He needed both to undo the jeans, but the sound Pickles made when he finally got them open was worth it. There was no underwear to worry about, so he was immediately confronted with _Pickles from Snakes N Barrel’s actual cock_ , and this was all happening so fast and out of nowhere that it felt like a dream. He took hold and was rewarded with a moan and an encouraging nip at his earlobe. Was this what celebrities did when they fell out of the public eye and ran out of groupies? And who was _he_ , giving a virtual stranger a handjob in a darkened movie theater? He never would’ve thought he’d be doing something like this. 

And yet. 

Pickles was already leaking from anticipation, so he used that. The angle was awkward but Charles knew how to do this, knew how to correlate his movements to the eager sounds the other man made in his ear to get more of the best ones, and it was all like being drunk but clear-headed at the same time. Nothing surprised him, not even when Pickles swung over the armrest and deposited himself in his lap, grinding down with his ass and whispering, “Fuck, harder Charlie, do it harder!” Charles did as he was told, and was rewarded with two hands fisting in his short hair and pulling him in for a rough kiss. 

* * *

“Told you it was the boyfriend,” Charles said as the credits rolled. 

Pickles snorted. “I wasn’t actually watchin’ it, but okie. Hey uh, you might wanna turn your shirt inside out before the lights come up, chief. I got ya pretty good in the chest there.” He offered a lopsided grin that Charles had never seen so up close before. “Sahrry.”

Charles looked down at himself. Everything seemed . . . mostly dry now. He sighed and pulled it over his head—at least it was a polo shirt and not one of the button downs he wore for work. 

“Dood, you’re wearing an undershirt?” Pickles snickered. 

“It’s winter,” he retorted, pulling his shirt back on inside out. “I also have a jacket. Don’t you?”

“Nah, I got a ride from my motel.”

Charles paused in fussing with his shirt collar, glancing over sideways to try and decide if Pickles was fishing for a free ride. It didn’t seem like it; Pickles was fiddling with a lighter, flicking the top on and off, watching it intently while they waited for the theater to empty. 

“Do you, ah . . . want a ride back?”

Pickles looked up with another one of those smiles that made Charles feel like he’d somehow scored a free backstage pass. “Tell ya what, chief, how ‘bout you give me your number and I’ll call you for New Year’s?”

“What?” Charles said, reddening. “No, I wasn’t trying—That’s not what I—”

“Heh, yeah I’m just messing with ya.” Pickles tapped him on the nose with the lighter, then pocketed it. “Yer just too cute when you stutter. I’m serious about the number, though. I’d get ya mine but. . . .” He shrugged. “Anyway, you seem like the kinda guy who keeps business cards in his wallet, so gimme one.”

Give Pickles from Snakes N Barrels his number, what a fucking thought. Because he'd _b_ _een asked_ for his number by Pickles from Snakes N Barrels. Holy shit. 

But it wouldn’t just be Pickles from Snakes N Barrels. It would also be giving his number to someone who’d already admitted to originally walked into the theater to pay for drugs with a blowjob, and then ended up also fooling around with a random stranger who’d noticed him doing it. And Charles’ card listed not only his full name and cell number, but also his work line, email address, and name of the company he worked for. 

In the space between Pickles’ request and the theater lights flicking on a moment later, Charles decided . . . what the hell. He had a comfortable life. A boring life, if he was honest. In the past hour or so he’d done a number of things that he would ordinarily never do, and it was the best night he’d had in _years._

So he handed his card to Pickles from Snakes N Barrels and they shuffled out of the movie theater, him shrugging on his coat and Pickles folding the card in half and tucking it in a back pocket. When they hit the sidewalk outside they went their separate ways. Charles wondered, as he found his car in the snowy, mostly empty parking lot and slid in behind the wheel, if the man was ever going to call. 

* * *

Years later, Charles looked up from his work at a knock at the door of his Mordhaus office. “Yes?”

Pickles poked his head inside. He was wearing a holiday wreath on his head—one of the real ones with white flocking ‘so it would look all mummified and shit,’ the black ribbon still clinging to it tangled up in his dreadlocks—and a second wreath of smoke twining up from the joint in his hand. His eyes bugged out a little when he saw Charles just sitting there. “Dood, come on! What’re you still doin’ in here, it’s Christmas Eve!”

“Hm?” Blinking, Charles checked his watch and then started neatening his desk for the evening. “Oh. Sorry, I lost track of time. Our, ah, standing appointment, of course. What’s on the screening schedule?” 

“Scream.” Pickles smirked. “You up for it, chief?”

There were some interesting quirks to being the two oldest full-time residents of Mordhaus; they had history together that the other guys knew absolutely nothing about. And every year for Christmas Eve, barring that one disastrous year with the infamous Christmas Special, they holed up in Pickles’ room to put on horror movies and not watch them. 


End file.
